


All Her Silences

by BazinMousqueton



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Although He's Mentioned), (But Less Than Tampons), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Not About Athos, Author's Favorite, But Not Exactly Fluff, Christmas, Difficult Prose Style, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Femslash, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rare Pairings, Struggle for Dominance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: Clarick Winter and Sylvie Boden, ranked one and two in the barristers' Top 40 Under 40, face one another across the Old Bailey. Their verbal sparring sparks into something that isn't quite flirtation, then explodes at a Christmas party.





	1. En Garde

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was my Christmas present to myself. If you enjoy it, I'd love it if you leave me a comment. If not, no worries. ~~I'll be posting Aramis/Athos/Porthos porn next week,~~ I've posted Aramis/Athos/Porthos porn -- "[Mellifluence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9001198)" -- to celebrate the new year and everyone likes that, right?!

Sylvie Boden shoves chin into hand -- elbow on hard wood, teeth gritted, headache spiking through temples -- as Clarick Winter bamboozles the witness, leading him in floundering circles, letting him drift... reeling him back, making him stumble... catching the truths half-spoken and bringing them to the surface; making sure the jury doubts him; making sure they forget his expertise and the simplicity of his evidence; making sure; making sure... until finally--

\--she asks an inadmissible question and Sylvie bounces to her feet.

"My Lady!" she says. "My learned friend is leading the witness."

The judge presses her lips together. "Yes," she says. "Ms Winter, rephrase the question."

"I withdraw the question," Winter says, but the damage is already done and Sylvie would admire the performance if the discredited man weren't her best witness.

# # # 

Clarick Winter arrives fashionably late to the Top 40 Under 40 reception. She's ushered inside. She knows most of those there: the Bar is a very small world. She meets. She greets.

Sylvie Boden approaches.

"Aha!" says the QC next to Clarick, his chins wobbling, "our number one and our number two, face-to-face."

"As we have been all day in Court One," Boden says, holding out her hand. "Congratulations."

Clarick shakes Boden's hand. They both use a strong grip. They're both well above average male height, in their heels. They're two of only eleven women in the room. Boden has deep brown eyes.

"Good to have women in the top two places," Clarick says. 

Boden grimaces. "Better when you're number one." 

# # #

Sylvie leans sideways; rests her head on the toilet cubicle's marble tiled wall; closes her eyes and lets the coolness seep in, soothing and numbing and... _fuck_ , how she wishes she didn't have to go back into that reception. She hates these kind of parties: watching what she says, watching how she says it; only one other non-white barrister in the room, but the catering staff are all black or Polish; only ten other female barristers, but the bar and the cloakroom are run by women; and she's supposed to be proud of coming second when everyone there thinks second is another word for loser; and -- her stomach cramps and she checks her watch -- and it's another hour and a quarter until she can take the next painkillers and--

_Thump._

_Crash._

" _Fuck!_ "

Sylvie recognises Winter's perfect enunciation -- she's been listening to it in the Old Bailey, day after day -- but she's never heard Winter's rage... and it's fascinating, fascinating enough that Sylvie sits up, and unwraps a new tampon, and slides it in -- swearing only a little, under her breath, when it gets awkwardly wedged and she has to reposition it -- and wipes and straightens and readies and unlocks the door and walks out to find Winter--

_shaking_ the drawer of the tampon dispenser, just _rattling_ it, double-handed, with a look of absolute bloody murder on her -- beautiful -- face. 

Sylvie knows she only has one more tampon in her bag; if she gives it away she'll have to leave early or risk the shame -- and why is it a shame? but it is, a shame she'd never overcome, not in this profession -- of bleeding visibly, being seen to bleed... but she unzips the bag and pulls out the tampon and stretches out her hand to Winter, because it'll be worth leaving early (which she wants to do anyway), worth being seen as a lightweight, as a sore loser, to have this woman in her debt. 

Winter's expression -- her lips parted, her fingers touching her throat -- could be genuine surprise, or could be something more calculated; Sylvie's gaze lingers on those lips, on those fingers, long enough for Winter to notice, if she's inclined that way... and Sylvie has no idea; Winter's certainly not out as queer, but then nor is Sylvie, not in this world, and they've both had relationships with a man... 

_a_ man...

...just the one; Winter long ago, Sylvie now, maybe; off then on, on then off...

...and Winter takes the tampon, nods her thanks, and sweeps into a cubicle leaving Sylvie feeling the afterimage of Winter's fingers on her palm.


	2. Lunge and Parry

Clarick clatters down the main staircase at the Old Bailey. She nearly bumps into Boden at the landing. She stops a step above, so she can look down. Boden's hair, free of her wig, haloes.

"How can you defend him?" Boden asks. 

It's rhetorical. Boden knows as well as Clarick: cherry-picking is frowned upon. The clerk handed her this brief, pink ribbons trailing. Clarick took it. She could do nothing else. 

Still, she gives the standard reply: "Everyone deserves a defence."

Boden shakes her head. "Not him," she says. "Not him."

As she turns away, Clarick knows Boden deserved more than the standard reply.

# # #

Sylvie pauses at the foot of the stairs, at the start of another day in what already feels like a never-ending case -- a never-ending case she's going to lose -- and takes in a calming breath full of the beeswax polish used on the wooden panelling (of course she talks to the cleaners; of course she knows what polish they use. Her dad was a cleaner, when they first fled to the UK, while he put himself through university, while he brought her up and taught her right and wrong...) and smells wet marble, slush-covered footprints trailing up the steps, and smells...

...smells jasmine and turns--

\--and Winter is _right there_ , right behind her, and how can she be cat-footed in five-inch heels? 

"Does he speak of me?" Winter asks, and whatever Sylvie had expected, that wasn't it...

...because she'd never imagined speaking of Athos with this woman, with Athos's wife -- still wife, not ex-; they hadn't divorced; and _that_ was a question Sylvie had never sought answers to -- because Athos's silence on the subject was embedded too deep...

...but silence wasn't the whole truth...

...there were two truths: first, that Athos has never, ever, not once mentioned Winter; and second -- and Sylvie discovers, as she opens her mouth, that it's the second truth she's going to tell Winter...

"You fill all his silences."

...and something broken flickers in Winter's eyes and Sylvie wonders whether the first truth would have been kinder, after all. 

# # #

Clarick grips her scarlet brief-bag and suppresses a shudder. She keeps her face impassive. She'd seen the photographs before. Steeled herself against them. 

The jurors' expressions lash her.

She lifts her chin. Feels her client's eyes on her back. Strides out of court with her head high.

Boden refuses to catch her gaze on the stairs. Clarick draws level with her.

"You know Constables Herblay and Vallon beat that confession out of my client," she says.

Boden turns to her, anger flaring. "Your client is an animal. And guilty."

It's Boden who runs. Clarick, standing her ground, knows it should have been her.


	3. Touch

Sylvie accepts the congratulations, the applause as she returns to Chambers, the glass of champagne as she climbs the stairs to her attic office, a new brief from the clerk -- something prestigious, from his smile and wink -- the hints about taking silk...

...and yet none of it seems real...

...because it isn't: she didn't win the case; whatever made Winter's client change his plea to guilty was no doing of hers.

And she takes her seat and kicks off her shoes and leans back and sips champagne and the bubbles fizz in her mouth and she remembers: the photos; the families in the public gallery, day in day out; the police reports, detailed, sickening; the fear in the jurors' eyes when they'd looked at that man -- and she grins... 

...because he's locked up, and it might not be her victory but she is damn well going to celebrate, because this -- justice, the truth, getting people like him off the streets -- this, all this, is what she lives for.

# # #

Clarick dresses carefully. She wears her highest heels. She arrives a little later than fashionable. There's a murmur as she enters Inner Court. She stands tall. She may have lost, but she wasn't beaten.

The Master of Ceremonies bids them take their places for dinner. The table is decorated with holly and candles. The company is both boorish and competitive. 

The turkey is dry. 

# # #

Sylvie slips to the ladies' between courses, desperate for a break from the predatory conversation: she loves being a barrister, but she doesn't love socialising with her peers; it's all circling and searching for weaknesses... and she knows she can play the game, but she also knows she'll go home hating herself if she does.

Plus, the vegetarian option was mushroom Wellington, again, her least favourite, especially when the mushrooms have been cooked until they're rubbery -- and how was that even possible? -- and the sprouts were unspeakable; her stomach's still growling with hunger and she fishes in her evening bag for the Twix she'd stashed there earlier -- had the cabbie stop at a newsagent's for on her way over -- because she knew she'd end up starving, and she rips the gold wrapper--

\--and the door slams open behind her and Winter, thunderclouds in her eyes, crashes through.

"Fuck me," she says, "I'd forgotten how bad these parties are."

And Sylvie's jaw drops.

Winter's wearing a black tuxedo: slim-fit trousers over slender hips, cropped short to display elegant ankles and strappy sandals; jacket unbuttoned; wing collar dress shirt and black bow tie; hair pinned up and back... and Sylvie's fingers itch to untie that bow tie, to let down the hair... and she knows it's just her hormones -- _mostly_ just her hormones -- because she's ovulating and she fancies everyone, and it's not until she closes her mouth and offers Winter a Twix (she takes the left Twix, with a smile that makes Sylvie's pulse race) that Sylvie remembers she knows Winter's cycle...

...and that means Winter is horny as all hell too...

...and that _fuck me_ might not be purely a figure of speech.

# # #

Clarick crunches into the Twix. 

Boden's dress is emerald green: knee length, sleeveless. Her hair's loose. Clarick admires Boden's cleavage; leaves her gaze there long enough to be sure it's been noticed. She steps closer.

# # #

"We could... take this elsewhere?" Sylvie says, leaning in, the hair on her arms raising, her breath quickening, Winter's jasmine scent intoxicating...

# # #

"My place," Clarick says.

# # #

...and Sylvie freezes, because she can't give up that much control, hasn't with anyone; certainly won't for Winter, Winter who will defend the indefensible, who ranks one to Sylvie's two... who has the most distracting green eyes...

"No," Sylvie says. "My place is closer."

...and she doesn't know that, but it's a fair bet, she lives in the City and hardly anyone lives in the City; and Winter's eyes narrow, she licks her lips, a flush spreads across perfect cheekbones...

# # #

Clarick doesn't go to her lovers' homes. Not ever. 

She swallows. Fights the urge to bury her hand in Boden's hair. Her fingers twitch. Boden's hands clench, then release.

"Hotel," Clarick says, smiling slowly. 

She finishes the Twix. 

# # #

Sylvie leads Winter past the kitchens and out of a back door: she'd had a friend who'd worked here, washing up, years ago; she'd lost track of the friend but she never forgot a way out... 

...they run across the gardens and into Temple Avenue and Winter takes charge, taking Sylvie's hand and dragging her down the street, both of them laughing, Sylvie stuffing her Twix into her mouth because she's sure she's going to need the calories... and she wonders, for a moment, whether anyone will connect two seats empty through dessert, or whether enough people will sneak away to avoid the after-dinner speeches that they'll have camouflage...

...and she pays enough attention when they enter a hotel lobby to insist they split the bill, and is grateful she took out plenty of cash to spend at the bar, as Winter wields a platinum card and Sylvie gives her half the room rate in crisp twenties, and the lift doors close behind them--

\--and Winter drops her hand and steps away and doesn't pounce--

\--until they enter room 406, and shut the door, and Winter sweeps Sylvie into her arms, pins her against the door and kisses her, hard and rough...

# # #

Clarick presses into Boden. She grabs a handful of hair. Deepens the kiss. Bites Boden's lower lip. Pushes her thigh between Boden's legs.

Gasps for breath, lightheaded. 

Boden twists out of her grasp. Ducks; yanks her hair free. Shoves Clarick's back into the door. Grabs Clarick's wrists. Holds them above her head. 

Clarick struggles. Leans towards Boden's neck.

# # #

Sylvie's taller, longer-limbed -- she should have the advantage -- but Winter's strong and determined and -- _fuck!_ \-- not above biting hard enough to mark, and Sylvie moans and uses the entire length of her body to immobilise Winter, and they kiss messily -- teeth clashing and tongues licking into each other's mouths, and they're both panting, and Sylvie needs her hands to explore Winter's body; to push off her jacket; to untie that bow tie; to pull, fingers trembling, her shirt out of her waistband; to touch Winter's warm skin and feel her quiver; to...

...and Winter's hands, freed, first cup Sylvie's jaw, then run over her back, unzipping her dress, and onto her hips, then hold Sylvie tight as Winter pushes forward, walking her to the bed, throwing her down, landing on top of her with a triumphal crow of laughter.

And Sylvie shifts her weight, and swivels her hips, and turns them, and ends up on top, straddling Winter, Winter's wrists, again, imprisoned in Sylvie's grip.

# # #

Clarick grins. 

Boden's skirt is pushed up, revealing toned thighs. Boden presses them against Clarick's sides. Clarick writhes against her. She arches her back. She calculates how to regain the upper hand. 

She has a problem. 

She wants Boden naked. 

That's going to involve cooperation.

"Truce," she says.

# # #

Sylvie raises an eyebrow, smiling broadly and not releasing her grip. Winter looks good underneath her: breathing heavily, a blush rising up her neck, wisps of hair curling free, a kissable band of midriff between rucked-up shirt and trousers, her bow tie dangling, her lips already kiss-swollen...

"And why would I want a truce?" Sylvie asks.

"Because you want me naked."

...and Sylvie's heart pounds and her knees go weak and she tenses, gathers herself... and pushes away, rolling off the far side of the bed and standing upright, with only the slightest wobble, as Winter slides to her feet and kicks off her sandals...

...and Sylvie pulls off her dress and steps out of her shoes and cannot keep her eyes off Winter, tearing at her shirt buttons and wriggling out of her trousers...

...letting down her hair...

…until they're both standing in their underwear -- Winter's lacy and black, Sylvie's her plainest M&S undies, the only ones she can wear under that dress without a VPL, and she'd feel embarrassed about it except... Winter's eyes are shining and she's looking at Sylvie as if she wants to eat her, and Sylvie would like to be the one to undo Winter's bra, but she won't admit it so instead she reaches behind for the clasp of her own bra, and Winter mirrors her, and slowly, together, they reveal themselves... and the curve of Winter's breasts is gorgeous, their nipples pink and erect against flushed ivory skin and Sylvie salivates...

# # # 

Clarick chews her lower lip. She sucks in a rasping breath. She needs Boden's hands on her, in her. She needs her mouth on Boden's perfect sepia skin.

She strips off her knickers and reaches out...

# # #

...and Sylvie reaches out and they meet in the middle of the bed, rolling together, legs tangled, hands touching, mouths kissing and licking and biting; and Sylvie bucks as Winter's finger grazes her clit and curves and pushes inside and Sylvie's so wet and she cries out at the sensation and grips Winter's shoulder and runs her hand down Winter's flank and across her hip and between her legs and -- _fuck_ \-- along the heat and wetness of Winter's folds until she feels her clit, and she pauses, and teases, and Winter raises her hips...

...and Sylvie slips two fingers inside and closes her mouth around Winter's nipple and Winter moans...

...and thrusts with her finger and curves her palm and presses against Sylvie's clit and it's slick and it's slippery and it feels so good and Sylvie circles Winter's nipple with her tongue and sucks and Winter braces herself against Sylvie, her nails cutting crescents into Sylvie's shoulder... and Sylvie clutches Winter's hair and...

...and Winter accelerates, pushing into Sylvie, nudging her clit, her rhythm building, warmth spreading through Sylvie...

...and Sylvie yanks Winter's hair, drawing a gasp and a groan, and bites her nipple, and rubs her clit and...

...and...

...they roll...

...Winter, on top, cries out, shaking; forces herself against Sylvie's hand; judders and goes still. Sylvie throws her off, straddles her; spreads her legs as Winter eases a third finger inside, as a wave of sensation breaks over her, as she comes, her eyes screwed shut, amid the scent of jasmine.

# # # 

Clarick rises. Boden sprawls across the covers, sated and beautiful. She smiles as Clarick dresses and leans over the bed for one final kiss.

Clarick turns in the doorway; catches Boden's eye. Inclines her head in respect. 

"My Lady," she says. 

"My Lady," Boden replies, voice soft and deep.


End file.
